Journals

    It was the last time I will ever touch Katie’s camera.   It was despair in Paris .      On the third day of the trip, our second day in la ville, Katie makes a remark she has repeated several times, this time on our way to the Moulin Rouge.   The lighting on her digital camera appears to be darker than usual.   She wants to make sure her camera is on the right setting for taking shots of Paris at night.   Supposing I can assist her with this minor problem, I attempt to fix the problem and unknowingly create a much larger problem for both of us.   On her camera menu I find a selection that reads low-level format.   I am not sure what this means, but ignorantly select okay.   Almost instantly I am struck with the realization I have committed a terrible mistake.   One of those frozen moments when everything seems to move in slow motion, the pictures on her camera, every single one of them, have been erased.   Gone, suddenly removed from time and place.   Her pictures from graduation, her pictures from her birthday in old town Alexandria , her pictures from our day in London , her pictures of us smiling in front of the Eiffel Tower , are now nowhere to be found.   To her, what has just happened is nothing short of a tragedy.     Why, why couldn’t I at least get one picture of us with our backs to the tower every tourist of Paris is intent on capturing?   Because I was unable to see just such a moment as this happening, I failed to take any pictures of us standing before the world’s most famous landmark.   A failure of epic proportions on my part, Katie is at first in shock.   She can only manage to continually exclaim in disbelief, where are my pictures?   Where are my pictures?   It can only be met with a painful echo.   I have no words to offer her.   When it hits her they are banished forever she erupts into tears.   She is inconsolable.   People all around us on our coach ask me in no uncertain terms, “What the hell just happened?”   The word hell is a fitting one for the occasion, for it is precisely how I feel.   My tongue, since my stupidity gone mute, comes back to life to utter pathetically, “I am sorry, I’m so sorry.”   I promise you I’ll make it up to you, somehow manages to escape from my mouth.   Those near us on the bus all have a way they think can restore her pictures.   We restart her camera, we take out the disk.   Nothing works.   Her camera does not respond to human intercession.   All her shots of our first three days in Europe are lost.   Katie is in tears when we arrive at the Moulin Rouge, her excitement replaced by despair.   Meanwhile, I can only continue my sad, tired apology.   Others offer her their words of encouragement.   “We’re in Paris, the Moulin Rouge, just let it go.”   She seems to at least respond to them.   Me she hardly notices.   The way she walks in front of me as we enter speaks to her anger.   She did pay for both of our tickets.   How could I be this stupid?   Staring at her back I begin to realize I have no answer.   I tell myself it is a mistake anyone could have made.   But I don’t truly believe it.   One second of my life that I wish I could have back, or perhaps erase from my memory as simply as my foolish finger did her pictures.   One second.   One second managed to drastically change our day for the worse.   Technology is great, I have no doubt of this, but it really makes you feel small and worthless sometimes.   Good thing we can’t take pictures inside the Moulin Rouge.   I’d like to forget this night.